


A Delicious Predicament (part 2)

by Mari Black (LochNessRaven)



Series: Torn Asunder [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Gen, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23672389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LochNessRaven/pseuds/Mari%20Black
Summary: Lavellan returns home to Skyhold with a gruesome trophy. The Inquisitor reminisces about her new life as the Herald of Andraste, and the solitude that comes with her position.
Series: Torn Asunder [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700971
Kudos: 10





	A Delicious Predicament (part 2)

**Author's Note:**

> _Torn Asunder_ is an ongoing erotic fiction set in the world of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Behind the scenes of major events, Lavellan struggles with feelings of anxiety, overwhelming responsibility, and isolation as she adjusts to life in human society while trying to save the world from Corypheus. The newly-appointed Inquisitor steps up to the challenge, but balks at the idea of assuming the mantle of a fanatical, religious figurehead. She finally seeks escape from the pressures of leadership through the exploration of her sexuality, but quickly finds herself embroiled in a labyrinth of romantic complexity. 
> 
> _A Delicious Predicament_ is the 4-part opening to this story arc which focuses on character development and setting. This chapter is fairly tame, so please return for parts 3 and 4, where Lavellan finally finds some release in a steamy conclusion.

Lavellan swallowed a surge of disappointment as her advisors raced across Skyhold’s courtyard to meet her uncanny parade as they passed under the portcullis. She’d hoped to arrive with little fanfare and slip away to her chambers for a clandestine nap before being called off to the war room. Unfortunately, those stolen minutes of solitude evaporated as the ubiquitous mob of Skyhold residents that bustled about in every hour of the day greeted her with a boisterous cheer, waving excitedly at the arrival of their Inquisitor and flocking to peer at the spectacle rolling in behind her. Cassandra had requisitioned the aid of a few specialists who, as if by magic and strange coincidence, conveniently appeared to assist with the preparation and transportation of the high dragon carcass.

The young elf had, at first, been curious of the process and did not balk at the sight of the stinking mound of slippery offal being extricated from the beast. She had participated in enough hunts with her clan that she was familiar with field dressing an animal efficiently. However, these men that Cassandra had called in seemed more occultists than hunters: they whispered and chanted and drew unfamiliar sigils in the scorched earth where the Frostback spent its last fiery storm. They sought portents in the entrails spilling across the grass when the beast’s belly was slit reverently. Each movement seemed like a ritual, and as the impenetrable skin was tenderly peeled back and the bones worshipfully defleshed, Lavellan felt less like a conquering hero and more like she had somehow, unwittingly, slain a god. At some point they had halted their work and turned in disturbing unison, staring at her over their rounded shoulders, silent and unmoving as if frozen in a spell. Lavellan shivered, rubbing her hands vigorously over the hair standing up on her arms, and immediately regretted her oversight of their work.

The remains proved too ungainly in size to transport together – and the Inquisitor cursed like a Rivani sea captain over the loss of an unproductive week as the field party attempted to drag the thing cross-country in vain. Looking back on their efforts, she had to laugh at the sight of her silly little army scurrying around their prize with no clue as to how to bring it home, like a family of mice who’d stolen an entire block of cheese. Eventually, it was decided that the skull would travel on with Lavellan and her companions to Skyhold, where the excess energy of bored and frustrated mages could be put to constructive use. With an escort of soldiers and select ex-Templars, a contingent of the Redcliff mages would strike out to the field camp where the remainder of Lavellan’s force had settled with the rest of the remains. With the aid of magic, Cassandra expected the last of their company to re-join them in a matter of days.

The slender elf twisted in her saddle to check on the progress of the convoy ponderously rolling in behind her. The massive cranium, bleached to a chalky white, was no less fierce for being lashed down on a supplies caravan. The soldiers and laborers who had rushed to greet her now pressed in close to the creaking wagon, stretching out fingers and palms to brush travel dust from the eldritch bone in awe. Cassandra had already dismounted to bark for order over the happy chaos, leaving her horse with a breathless squire. Lavellan absently scratched the side of her mare’s neck, right near the shoulder where she liked a good rub. The horse gave a rumbling sigh in appreciation, head drooping slightly and upper lip quivering in pleasure. For a moment Lavellan envied her steed, to feel so much contentment from such a simple action. The complete lack of complexity – an act of affection and an equal response – made her ache for the uncomplicated life she lost when she left the Free Marches. Under the apprenticeship of the Keeper, her days had been filled with hard labour, chores, and study, but being a part of the clan meant never being alone; it was a life spent together in work and sorrow and joy, where affection and physical touch were as common as embrium on the plains. The reverent isolation of becoming the Herald of Andraste – and now the figurehead of the Inquisition – was a stark contrast to everything Lavellan had previously known.

“Are you well, Inquisitor?”

Cullen reached gracefully towards her horse, a practiced hand on the mare’s bridle to bring her around. His polite smile pulled at the scar that cut through the softness of his lips, and his brow knit slightly as his eyes searched her face for a sign of injury or illness. He caught her wistfully staring into space, and being familiar with the feeling of anguish himself, had astutely observed the fleeting expression of pain that momentarily tightened her expression.

“Commander,” she greeted in return, forcing a rueful smile, and focusing her attention on the ex-Templar standing below her. “I’ll be fine, it’s been a rough journey, that’s all.”

“We received word from the scouts that you had a hard-won fight. I’d say the reports didn’t tell the half of it.”

“Yes, well … thankfully, I had the Seeker with me. Cass is as tough as ironbark, and thank the Creators, she memorized all of Adan’s recipes. It was a mess when we got back to camp, and I can’t trust these two,” she jerked her head behind her where The Iron Bull and Dorian were arguing over who caused the most damage during the dragon fight, “to cook a decent stew, let alone a healing potion. The only thing they’re good for is mixing a stiff drink!”

Cullen’s expression softened slightly, and he chuckled appreciatively. The Qunari and the Tevinter had since dismounted, and were embroiled in a flashy debate, to the titillation of several young serving girls and a few Chantry sisters who had formed an avid audience. Lavellan watched the scene play out, as if Bull and Dorian had rehearsed a perverse play for their own amusement. To most their animosity must seem genuine, but she wasn’t convinced of their hostility. Beyond some healthy competitiveness, Lavellan suspected that the two men begrudgingly respected one another and carried on with such displays only to keep up appearances.

Bull continued his assault on Dorian’s disreputable heritage, pausing only to dip his horned head in affable salutation as he strode past, leading his bizarre (and strangely adorable) war nug to the stables. Lavellan fought the familiar heat rising in her cheeks, from both embarrassment and frustration. In the time that passed since he’d carried her away from the carnage of the dragon’s nest, Bull never once indicated that he had even noticed her unexpected … reaction … towards him. She couldn’t fathom if he was being polite out of consideration for her dignity, or if she’d misjudged his awareness of her arousal.

The fact that she did not know infuriated her, and paradoxically, peaked her arousal to an unrelenting fervour.

“I – that is,” Cullen coughed, “we – are glad to see you returned.”

Lavellan quickly shifted her attention back from the contours of Bull’s flexing muscles and smiled at the Commander’s flushed face. _I wonder if he realizes how young he looks when he rubs the back of his neck?_ She pondered, then immediately chastised herself. Cullen was several years older than her and had experienced unbelievable trauma when he was younger than she was now. By all rights, he should look haggard and aged beyond his days. His eyes carried the burden of his nightmares, yet somehow, retained a delicate youthfulness she feared might shatter under the slightest weight. Her military advisor looked away, regaining his composure under her scrutiny, a familiar mask of professionalism hiding any further insight from her gaze. Before she had a chance to respond, Leliana and Josephine joined them, chattering excitedly about her accomplishment. Josie insisted that they take advantage of the opportunity to host a ball at Skyhold – “To celebrate the heroic dragonslaying!” she exclaimed – while animatedly scribbling notes. It was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate the might of the Inquisition and allow powerful Orlesian and Fereldan nobles to shower them with prestige. Leliana was commenting on the qualities of dragonscale and how they must save some materials for the Inquisitor, giving the ambassador directions for contacting an artisan who could create masterwork armour from the hide and bone.

The Inquisitor nodded dutifully as the two women continued inspecting the massive skull she’d dragged across half of Thedas, debating over it’s placement in the Great Hall. But the elf, feeling tired and lonely, still mounted on her patient horse, watched the ex-Templar stride purposefully away and wondered if he knew how much she wanted to give him a long, quiet, hug.

_* * * * * *_

“ _Mythal'enaste_ , _ma halani!_ For the good intentions of my friends may cause as much ill as those of my enemies!” Lavellan cursed in elvehn, citing an old Dalish proverb while wearily wrenching open the iron-barred door to her private quarters. After Cullen departed for the war room, she dutifully saw to the comfort of her mare before heading indoors for the debriefing. Her attention and care with the grooming gained her a look of hard-won approval from Master Dennet as she exited the stables, but her late arrival in the war room sweating and covered in horsehair did nothing for her popularity with Josie and Leliana. In the following hours she and her advisors hunched over letters, reports, and troop placements, until Cassandra had exhausted the details of their latest foray through the Hinterlands and they turned focus to the next assignment. The Champion of Kirkwall was well on his way to Crestwood, where he would introduce the Inquisitor to an unknown Grey Warden contact. This liaison would be vital in gathering intel on the mysterious disappearance of the Grey Wardens; but the Warden himself was another wildcard in a stacked deck. Even Leliana was blind where it came to the Wardens: the Inquisition simply had no way to fully prepare for what, or who, lay ahead. Until they received notice from the Champion with coordinates to the rendezvous site, Lavellan had to turn her attention to an avalanche of other pressing matters. Insane Red Templars, missing Seekers, lyrium smuggling, Venatori cultists, rampaging demons … the list of problems that demanded her utmost attention grew longer every hour, and by the end of the afternoon, the Herald wondered if she would find time to accomplish everything that was expected from her in a single lifetime. Feeling overwhelmed by the sheer weight of urgent requests, it was agreed that the Inquisitor would only postpone her departure long enough for resupply and fresh mounts to be readied.

By the time the servants arrived at dusk to light the sconces, Lavellan was falling asleep on her feet. Knowing full well that any respite would be short-lived, the elf wanted nothing more than to wash the dirt off her face and kick the mud from her boots before collapsing into bed. Leliana, with a sly smile on her face, finally closed the war meeting and shooed the Inquisitor off to her rooms. Gladly, she swiftly made her escape, her haversack slung precariously onto one shoulder, and took the stairs two at a time. She’d decided to deposit her luggage and staff upstairs first, splash some water on her face and leave her travel-soiled clothes in the back room to be laundered later, then make the arduous trip back down to liberate some granary bread from the kitchen before retiring for the night. She didn’t think she’d have much energy for anything else, except perhaps to read a bit from the books that Josie seemed to miraculously produce out of thin air and deposit on her couch whenever her back was turned. Knowing Cullen, he’d work well into the night to ensure her company would be ready to ride come daybreak, which meant she would have precious little time for relaxation.

“ _Halam'shivanas_.” She muttered ungraciously to herself, the heavy door groaning as it swung wide.

Lavellan had to admit that she was becoming accustomed to the few special privileges her promotion afforded her. After knowing only egalitarian co-habitation, it surprised her how quickly she acclimated to a lifestyle where her bedding was always meticulously aired, and her fireplace remained miraculously clean and cheerfully ablaze every time she entered her rooms. These expectations could not prepare her for the lavish spread that awaited her tonight. The soft, warm glow of flickering candlelight reflected off dust motes that swirled in the air like sparks of ancient magic. The lengthening shadows seemed to soften into velvet and accentuated the glimmer of food platters and a crystal decanter of dark wine balanced atop a tray table laden with a feast of soft cheeses, ripe fruits, and cold meats shaved into parchment-thin marbled ribbons. As she slowly climbed the last few steps into the tower chamber, any trace of irritation fled her thoughts as she gaped in astonishment at the fragrant, steaming bathtub framed by the stained-glass doors of her balcony.

**Author's Note:**

> Aneth ara!  
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy the descriptive nature of the story so far -- I promise, you won't be disappointed in the final part ;) Things are going to heat up for the poor Inquisitor, as the next two chapters will be solely focused on sensual eroticism.  
> The Dalish translations I drew from the [Dragon Age Wiki](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Elven_language) and [the-dalish-dish on tumblr](https://the-dalish-dish.tumblr.com/language), with a bit of my own interpretation.  
> Dareth shiral, and enjoy the journey! <3


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